


in a family way

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Breathplay, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Double Vaginal Penetration, F/M, Face-Fucking, Female Reader, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Why do I do this to myself, gagging, i cannot believe this is technically a five-way, save a horse ride cowboy beetlejuice, weird tenderness???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: Thunderous anger clouds his face. "Oh, I see, I see what's goin' on here," he strides to the edge of the bed, plants a dirty shoe on it, and leans in close, "what're you, a fuckin' bitch in heat, that it? Idea of some guy knockin' you up get you all hot 'n' bothered?"Chewing on your lip, you take the plunge. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? "Not....not some guy," you manage, shakily. The poltergeist's eyes darken, pupils blown wide, with lust or anger or both, you have no idea."Alright sweetcheeks, you wanna be bred?" There is something vicious in his voice - this is not an offer, this is a threat. "Fine. We'll breed ya."
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Originial Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 133





	in a family way

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to write something balls-to-the-walls filthy for our discord's november prompt "family", so, here you go.
> 
> (this fic operates under the tidbit of "canon" that beetlejuice hung himself over a woman - the idea being that having a family is a sore subject for that reason)

"Did you ever want kids?"

Small talk is maybe not your strong suit. Even when you were dating dudes who breathed and slept and didn't float behind you, bobbing along like a menacing striped balloon, you tended to end up suffering a terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease. The situation you find yourself in, the one where you're occasionally railed into oblivion by a horny ghost, has taken a decidedly domestic turn: Beetlejuice haunts your house, or rather, he haunts _you_. 

What this means is that a short outing to the gas station to buy a drink and get quarters for laundry means a perverted poltergeist lazing along in midair beside you, occasionally sending gusts of preternatural air to blow up your skirt. 

Normally, he's incredibly chatty, his car-salesman patter constant white noise at your ear, but he'd been uncharacteristically quiet as a picturesque family, complete with heavily pregnant mother and gaggle of screaming kids, crossed the street in front of you. So, you filled the silence - in retrospect, maybe a mistake. "I mean, like, when you were alive."

Beetlejuice is silent, which is odd. "I dunno....it's kinda hot," you mutter, gesturing at the mom, graceful and gravid in a long white sundress. 

You round the corner and shudder - Beetlejuice, ever the dramatic, is now hanging from a streetlight, swinging gently, neck at an obscene angle. As far as ways to say _this conversation is over,_ it's an appropriate one _._

"Okay! Fine, I get it - touchy subject," you roll your eyes and continue home. He doesn't follow you.

\---

The idea sticks around, even after you've returned home - not about having a happy, nuclear family, no, it had very little to do with the idea of being a parent. Your mind doesn't linger for long on the domestic angle - it’s the idea of being, well, there's no other word for it, being _bred,_ that has you chewing on your lower lip and pressing your thighs together shamelessly. The thought of being biologically dominated, being _owned_ , by someone ( _someone_ ), so thoroughly and irrevocably marked that everyone who saw you was confronted with the evidence of it. The idea sticks to the edges of your mind and simmers in the pit of your belly.

Envisioning yourself round and swollen, possessive, long-fingered hands (ragged nails with dark half-moon crescents of grave dirt beneath them) on your skin, palming your aching tits, sliding low between your legs where you are ripe and slick and hot and -

 _Oof_. 

You've no shame left anymore, not really, have long since come to terms with your bio-exorcist bootycall. Getting yourself all riled up is pretty par for the course these days, and your poltergeist paramour is always more than happy to indulge you - "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, _Beetlejuice!"_ Arranging yourself in what you hope is a seductive pose, you wait for the peal of thunder or hiss of television static or crack of your floor breaking open to signal his dramatic entrance.

Dark fog manifests, rolling across your floor in thick, malignant waves, hot and damp and smelling faintly of funeral flowers. You watch in fascination as it coalesces, congeals into vaguely human form, and then - right on time - he's standing in the center of your bedroom looking positively _malevolent_. His features seem somehow deeper, darker, pale blue eyes staring out of black pits in his face, a ring of purple bruising apparent over his filthy collar. 

"Whaddya want, kid, I ain't really in the mood, got a lotta other business to attend to, if ya know what I mean. I'm a busy guy, real _uh_ hot commodity, ya know-" his coffee grinder voice skates over your raw, oversensitive nerve endings and you blush, can't help but look up at him imploringly. He pauses in his diatribe, flicking his gaze over you, in your skimpy pajamas, a flush creeping up your neck, and his mouth opens, then shuts. 

Thunderous anger clouds his face. "Oh, I _see_ , I see what's goin' on here," he strides to the edge of the bed, plants a dirty shoe on it, and leans in close, "what're you, a fuckin' bitch in heat, that it? Idea of some guy knockin' you up get you all hot 'n' bothered?"

Chewing on your lip, you take the plunge. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? "Not....not _some_ guy," you manage, shakily. The poltergeist's eyes darken, pupils blown wide, with lust or anger or both, you have no idea. 

"Alright sweetcheeks, you wanna be bred?" There is something vicious in his voice - this is not an offer, this is a _threat._ "Fine. _We'll_ breed ya."

_We?_

Wispy, black vestiges of the fog thicken and multiply, eldritch black tentacles swirling and writhing, forcing themselves into vaguely humanoid shapes and coalescing into -

\- three Beetlejuices.

(What's the plural of Beetlejuice? And is grammar important at a time like this?)

Identical to the original in every respect, save for their clothes. One wears the filthy guide coat and hat you'd seen on your brief vacation to the Neitherworld, one is dressed confusingly as a cowboy, complete with sunglasses and a ten gallon hat, and the last is in a tuxedo, blood red, with frilly shirt and cummerbund to match. 

You swallow thickly. "Uh, 1989 called, they want their formalwear back."

(Your joke goes over like a lead balloon.)

"Your" Beetlejuice, the one in the striped suit with the expression of deadpan disinterest takes a seat in your desk chair. Two warring urges surge within you simultaneously, the first screaming at you to put the kibosh on this, that three is company and four is a crowd, _especially_ when it comes to _your vagina_. The second, the filthy, stupid, punch-drunk voice in your head that allowed things to get this far - howls with dirty anticipation. 

You were never much good at self-preservation. 

The one in the tux, _the Groom_ , slides rough hands up your calves, licking his teeth with every evidence of delight. "Ya gonna be a good little wifey for me, or what?" The hiss of a match snags your interest for just a moment - your Beetlejuice is lighting a cigarette, the flame illuminating his skull of a face - and there is smoldering hellfire in his eyes.

(Whatever this is, whatever you've awakened in him, is very bad news, and you are going to be punished soundly for.)

Your attention returns to the Groom, bizarrely dapper in his maroon suit and crooked bow tie - and nod. 

Large, cold hands move up to your knees, then around to the backs of your thighs and with inhuman strength you wonder if you'll ever get used to, he flips you over, so you are belly-down on the bedspread, staring dazedly at your headboard. He makes short work of your pajamas, exposing you to the cold air - just as the flush on your skin begins to slide into embarrassment, you feel hot breath on the base of your spine, and long, strong fingers at your hips. He spreads you wide, baring every intimate part of you, and you shudder and squirm, feeling the distinct heat of four sets of eyes on you, on your dripping cunt. 

"Oh, yessiree, that's _very_ pretty," the Groom says matter-of-factly, in that car salesman way of his, as if showing off a particularly nice four-door sedan as opposed to your naked body, "-ain't even been touched yet and _look at that_ , ready and raring to go. You wanna start a family, little bride, you want ol' Beetlejuice to getcha in the family way, ya know what I mean?" 

Everything stills, and it becomes clear he's waiting for you to reply: "....mm-hmm," you squeak out, burying your flaming cheeks in the pillow.

He laughs, a nasty, grating sound, and smacks you soundly on the ass. "And so _modest_ , ladies and germs, can't even show 'er face, but beggin' me to put a baby in 'er, now isn't that _somethin'!_ " 

And then his breath is on you, where you're most exposed, ghost hot and humid over your already-swollen clit, and you've got no choice but to whine into the pillow, sliding your knees out further, baring yourself _more,_ and you're rewarded with the scorching sweetness of his mouth. The groom licks long and slow with the flat of his tongue, strong fingers digging into the soft flesh at your hips, working your already tender body open with his clever ministrations. 

You're already pretty keyed up, so orgasm isn't far away, you can feel it like a coil of molten want ratcheting tighter and tighter in the pit of your belly - and then he stops. The sound you make is a humiliating little whimper, and he grates out another laugh. "C'mon, didja think we'd really make it that easy? Naw, kiddo, you gotta beg for it," he sinks ragged teeth into the tender flesh of your thigh, and you cry out, pain skittering across your nerve endings and transmuting by strange, terrible osmosis into pleasure. "Beg your ol' pal Beetlejuice for his cock, eh? Beg me to come in this sweet pussy, make it _mine._ Isn't that what you want, babe, isn't that what this is all about?"

Shame and lust crash over you in waves, dragging you down into bottomless depths of depravity, and what's worse is that you don't _care_. You beg without a moments hesitation. " _Please_ ," you scramble for words, because improv is not really your forte, you can't really _yes, and_ in this situation, "Please, Beej, I want it."

He sucks hard on your clit and your world goes fuzzy at the edges. "Mm, our distinguished panel of judges is gonna need ya to be a _little_ more specific."

He slides his tongue into you, a tongue you _swear_ is longer than any human tongue, stronger than it has any right to be, and you make another undignified squeak, rolling your hips to get the friction where you need it, "God, _please_ , fuck me," another lick,"come in me," he pulls back, to rub the pads of fingers over your aching clit, " _breed_ me."

"Well since ya asked so nice."

The first thrust of his cock is earth-shattering - there's no preamble, no prep, just the inexorable slide of his thickness into you, stretching you deliciously, the blunt head pressing snug against your cervix. Pulling his hips back sends delicious shockwaves of pleasure into the very heart of you, the friction he creates hot, and slick, and _electric_. His pace is efficient, not quite brutal, but _powerful -_ this is past fucking, this is _rutting_ , the animal instinct that lurks in the heart of every creature, no matter how civilized. 

Just as you begin to relax into it, the bedframe creaks, and you are confronted with the crotch of a pair of dirty blue jeans. 

The Cowboy. 

"Well hello there darlin'," he says in a western twang, a low, sultry drawl that has your toes curling and your mouth watering. You look up art him through your lashes, meeting his dark sunglasses. The Cowboy tips his hat to you in mock-gentlemanly greeting, nodding at his own fly. "Git to it, little lady."

On your hands and knees, the groom pounding you from behind, you have no means to undo his trousers - his own pale hands find his belt buckle, ostentatiously large and tarnished gold, and undoes the rusty zip, freeing his half-hard cock. With no hands to assist you, all you can do is open your mouth prettily, tongue flat, eyes fluttering shut every time the Groom lands a particularly solid thrust into your slick cunt. Just as the Beetlejuice behind you rams himself home with particular savagery, the one before you puts a tender hand on the back of your head before shoving the full length of himself into your waiting mouth. 

You struggle momentarily, fighting your gag reflex, and the prickle of surprised tears behind your eyelids. 

(Letting someone _touch that little dangly thing that swings at the back of your throat_ is not as easy as Cardi B makes it sound.)

The Cowboy croons out a low groan as the muscles of your throat work over the blunt head of his dick, fucking your face right through your body's fight-or-flight response. Gasping for air around the thickness of his shaft, you flick your eyes up to meet his mirrored sunglasses, seeing your own desperate face reflected there - tears beginning to track down your face, drool already leaking from the corners of your mouth. 

While the Groom's pace is leisurely, the Cowboy's is brutal - it's degrading, it's filthy, the hand in your hair fists tight it stings, your vision is beginning to swim from lack of oxygen, and _holy shit_ you've never been wetter in your life. You're pushed back and forth between them, fucked forward so that you gag and choke on the the Cowboy, then are forced back onto the groom's slick, waiting cock. 

Unable to breathe, you look up imploringly, hot tears pooling in the corners of your eyes and slipping down your cheeks. A not unkind hand comes up to wipe one away, "can't breathe, darlin?" he asks, gently. You flutter your lashes in response, nodding a best you can with a cock stuffed down your throat.

" _Good_."

Typical. 

He pulls back, just enough so you can gasp in half a ragged breath, before he's pushing right back in, snickering with fiendish cruelty. "Y'know, I figger maybe you oughta choke on it, ya know?" The Cowboy drawls conversationally, fisting his hand tighter in your hair, hips pistoning forward.

The Groom pounds away, grunting animalistically somewhere behind you, feeling you clench down around him, every muscle contracting as you struggle to breathe. "You're a nasty little thing, darlin', I think you oughta swallow it down, I don't know if you _deserve_ for me to coming in ya, whaddya think?"

He's not looking for you to answer, instead making eye contact with _your_ Beetlejuice, who has begun to palm the crotch of his striped pants, cigarette clamped between his teeth. He makes a noise of consideration - "Make 'er beg for it," he grates out. 

The noise you make is small, strained, your lungs burning and your eyes leaking and liquid heat pulsing in your veins. The Cowboy pulls back, and you cough and sputter, taking your first true lungful of air in what's felt like _long_ minutes. " _Jesus, beej_ -"

He grabs you by the chin, ragged nails digging into your jaw. "Don't sound like beggin' to me," his bizzaro Texas accent _does something to you_ \- not something you really have the brainpower to examine right now. Panting, you rack your brain for something vaguely sexy to say, but your mind is swimming, drowning in endorphins, dizzy from oxygen deprivation.

You feel a bit like you've had a really sexy concussion. 

Behind you, the Groom tightens his grip on your hips, grunts, and ruts into your pliant body - once, twice, three times, you swear you can _feel_ the gush of come, thick and hot, _filling you up_. You're struck by the idea of it taking root inside if you, swelling your belly, your tits, showing to the world that you let this nasty dead man inside of you again, and again, _and again._ The pit of desire in the pit if your stomach yawns wider, the coil of tension ratcheting another notch tighter. 

"Inside of me," you gasp, knowing you already look a total mess, face red and shiny with tears, pupils blown wide, begging for his cock, "I want you to come inside of me, _please_ , I want _more._ "

The Cowboy slaps your cheek, affectionately. "Good girl."

When the groom pulls out of you, without a second thought you go to your elbows, angling your body to keep the sticky mess of come inside of you. Peering over at your Beetlejuice, you can see he's got his cigarette smoked down to the filter, hand fisting his cock, watching you present yourself to his doppelgangers. Your eyes lock for a moment, his hard and hot and flashing reptilian yellow, and then you're being hauled bodily on top of the cowboy, who has shucked his jeans down to his knees. 

"Y'know what they say," his hands find your hip and guide you down on his waiting dick, still slick with your spit, and you shudder out a sigh at the tight fit, even after the righteous fucking you got from the groom. You shake your head, and he chuckles. "What's the ol' saying, you know the one - save a horse, _ride a cowboy?_ "

(If you weren't teetering on the verge of orgasm, you might have slapped him.) 

Working your hips in a slow and dirty circle, you feel him buck beneath you - you're not the only one on the edge. The Cowboy leers up at you, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh at your hips (there will be wine-dark bruises there, come morning) and his hips slam upwards into you, growling as he fills you for the second time this evening. This time, you _know_ you can feel it, searing and slick, each powerful thrust punctuated with a spurt of hot seed. You can't help it - the thought of being held down and bred, like a bitch in heat, like an animal, overwhelms you and you shudder on his twitching cock, waves of filthy, indescribable pleasure radiating outward from your abused cunt. 

You collapse on his chest, breathing heavily, the syrupy heaviness of post-orgasmic bliss curling deliciously up your spine.

The Cowboy is _still hard._

"Wha-" your heavy lids flutter open just in time for him to wrap strong arms around your waist, pinning you utterly, and begins to brutally thrust upwards, rutting into you. You can't help but to wail in surprised, overwrought pleasure, head falling forward onto his shoulder. 

There's a low, gravel voice at your ear - the Guide. 

"Ya been real good for us, babes, real good, but we ain't hardly through yet," he looms next to you, large and imposing in his dark coat. You look up at him helplessly, swallowing hard. _Two to go._ "Ya got us riled up somethin' fierce, ya now what I mean?" He's talking right into your ear, right into your _soul,_ and it's like that voice has a direct line to your woefully ignored clit, which throbs in response. "Is this what you want, doll, you want _daddy_ to show everyone who you belong to? Put a kiddo in you, let everyone know you let a dead guy fuck you? Let everyone know who owns this pretty little breather cunt?"

At that, he slides a finger inside of you, right alongside the Cowboy's cock. You whine at the intrusion, flexing your internal muscles around his digit. 

The Guide shushes you like you're a startled animal, working in a second finger. "This is what you wanted, babydoll, you dug yerself this grave and now ya gotta get properly fucked in it, ain't that right?"

If you'd had the presence of mind to respond, you might have said _that is definitely not how that saying goes_. As it happened, all you could do was wail at the stretch, the fullness. You can't move an inch, not even on top, the cowboy's arms are like steel bars around your waist, and now the Guide is moving around to take the Groom's place behind you, lining himself up at the entrance of your abused cunt -

Your breath catches in your throat.

He pushes _in._ The world narrows down to the exquisite agony of having two cocks inside of you, stretching you far beyond your limits, thrusting in perfect time so as to leave you dreadfully empty one moment and incredibly, overly full the next. "Ohmigod," you manage to gasp, "oh my _god_."

"I don't think He's here, kiddo," your Beetlejuice grates out from the corner. You turn your head to look at him, really look at him, masturbating leisurely while you're pinned, helpless, between his two clones. 

You feel the fluttering of a second orgasm begin to build at the base of your spine, something about watching _him_ watch _you_ , the idea that he's made all this for you, to sate some primal, biological fetish you barely knew you had, is surreal. Your mind fogs, floods with images of gravidity, of your belly swelling with the evidence of your unholy union, of big hands with ragged nails palming your newly sensitive skin. Still sensitive from your first orgasm, a second curls at the base of your spine, building pressure like water behind a dam..

The Guide continues to growl a litany of filth as he fucks into you, pushing you forward onto the Cowboy, whose thrusts have started to become frenzied and erratic - "You really need it bad, dontcha? Lettin' us both have you at once, to gua-ran- _tee_ you get knocked up _good._ " 

You respond with a ragged whine, close to _yes_ but not quite. Your second orgasm is sharper than the first, a single bright point of light behind your eyelid suddenly going _supernova_. 

Their rhythms are not quite in harmony with one another, so there is no respite for you, no moment when you're not completely overwhelmed - the Cowboy fucks you like an animal, all grim determination and vigor. The Guide takes his time, whispering in your ear in time with his leisurely thrusts. 

"Ya gotta watch," He pulls you back against him, palming your tits, our back to his front, the smell of grave dirt in your noise and his sandpaper voice in your ear. One hand finds and tilts your chin down, to look at where your poor, abused cunt is taking both his and the Cowboy's cocks "You asked for this, ya remember that? You wanted to be filled up, and ol' Beej is happy to oblige, ain't that right?"

The Cowboy lets out a harsh groan, tensing beneath you, hips canting up for one more beautiful, brutal thrust. The Guide fucks you through it, the filthy, wet noises causing you to flush red with heat and embarrassment, until he too sinks his teeth into your neck with a hiss and adds to the incredible mess inside of you. You feel bloated with it, almost certain your lower stomach looks swollen, feeling the shameful, sinful slickness that has filled you what feels like near to bursting. 

It's so good, you think you might just _die_.

At least you'd go out happy. 

You sag in the Guides grip, his strong forearm around your chest keeping you from collapsing forward onto the Cowboy, who extricates himself from beneath you and zips up his jeans with a tip of his ten gallon hat. When you're released, you slump forward onto the coverlet, knees hiked up just slightly to keep the consequences of this excellent (terrible?) decision inside of you. You feel limp and dazed, like you've just run a marathon, or done ecstasy, or tried to run a marathon while on ecstasy. Time blurs, and you feel bone-deep exhaustion start to eat at the corners of your mind. 

"Aw no ya don't," you feel powerful hands grab your hips and are flipped, bodily onto your back - your eyes flutter open in surprise to see your room empty, save for your _own_ Beetlejuice, staring down at you with an expression of dark, feral possession. "We ain't done, babes."

His kiss hurts, it's all teeth and bruising pressure - he tastes like an ashtray, cigarette smoke and acidic anger, and the smell of freshly turned earth and incense clings to him like an unholy halo. Your hands go to his collar, pulling him in close, desperate for a little tenderness - Beetlejuice tenses under your grip, and for an awful moment you think he's going to pull back, stop playing the game. He doesn't. 

Without breaking the kiss, you feel him root around for something on the bed: a pillow, which he shoves under your ass, ostensibly for your comfort, but you know it's to angle your hips upwards, so the hot, slick mess inside of you pools against your cervix, and that thought alone makes you shudder. 

The poltergeist unzips his trousers. "Tell me you how want it, doll," his voice is low, almost threatening, but there's something - desperate in it, a ragged anguish there you don't have the brainpower to parse. 

"I want _you_ ," you murmur, unable to come up with anything else, you capacity for dirty talk gone somewhere between the third and fourth hard fucking you took this evening, " _Please_."

Feeling the blunt head of his cock at your sodden entrance, you now he's warped reality, know he's made himself impossibly big - maybe to punish you, maybe to reward you, you're not entirely sure. Either way, you grit your teeth and wail through them as Beetlejuice, _your_ Beetlejuice, slowly slides him, obscenely huge cock stretching you further even that the Cowboy and the Guide, whiting your vision out and sending your eyes rolling back in your head.

"I-" you're not really sure what you're even going to say, but it's cut off when he seizes the backs of your thighs and _bends you nearly in half_ , rocking his hips back and then ramming them home. He's so strong, savage and menacing, more animal than anything else, more feral than any of the doppelgängers, caught in some kind of breeding fugue and dragging you along for the ride. 

You wonder, desperately, if this is about more than a kink, if the idea of breeding you, of making something living out of something dead, is galvanizing to him somehow. He seems hell bent on it, filling you up until you feel him everywhere, until you, warm and alive and real, are marked thoroughly and irrevocably as _his_. His lips are at your throat, sucking warm blood to the surface, his arms crush you to him, his body pounds yours down into the mattress, and -

\- your third orgasm rolls over you in heavy, blissful, agonizing waves.

(Seems excessive really)

You really are now just a hole for him to fuck, limp and pliant as a doll, staring up at your ceiling and taking shuddering breaths with every move of his body, the sweet friction of his enormous dick in your slick, swollen cunt, lubricated by come of his predecessors, dirtying you and staining you and _claiming you_ all at once. 

Finally, finally, Beetlejuice seizes you even tighter to him, claims your mouth in a messy kiss, and drives your hips down into the mattress one final time, flooding your cunt with thick come - it's _bliss_.

Filthy, disgusting bliss. 

\---

Sleep comes for you not soon after - you don't even have the strength to clean up, nor de-summon the demon who has a possessive hand on your belly. 

"It's a good thing you can't really knock me up," you mutter, turning over onto your side, feeling warm slick drip out of your body. 

"Uh," says Beetlejuice. 

_Fin_


End file.
